And from his cage, she heard Stour Nightfall give the faintest hiss of contempt.

“Kept the lines o’ communication open, I’d say,” said Clover. “Thought the time might come when that could be useful.”

“Useful to me, or useful to you?”

“Our fates are wove together, Chief! I see no difference ’twixt the two.”

“Huh.” She shifted her chagga pellet from one side of her mouth to the other and leaned forwards, turning her left eye towards him. “I’ve seen your future, Clover.”

He winced. “At least tell me I get to sit down.”

“Not yet, anyway. You’re going to go pay Black Calder a visit.”

That wince became a full grimace. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.”

“Think better of where you’re at and decide you’d rather be somewhere else? Sounds like the sort of thing you’re famous for.”

“Knew that’d land me in trouble sooner or later. So if Calder doesn’t kill me for betraying him in the first place, what then?”

Rikke considered him a moment. Considered the position. Turned in the chair to consider Stour Nightfall, sitting calm in his cage, hungry eyes gleaming in the shadows. She weighed the words carefully. “Tell him I’m willing to deal. Peace in the North. In return for his son.”

Clover glanced over at the cage. Rikke heard the chain creak as Stour shifted inside, pressing himself to the bars. Heard him make that hiss again.

“You sure?” asked Clover.

“I’m sure about asking the question.”

“As you wish, then.” He dragged his wet cloak from the bench and over his shoulder, slapping dew from the wolf-pelt collar. “If your answer is my head in a jar, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I’ll weep a river. And Clover?”

“Aye?”

“Probably best you don’t mention this business with the Nail. Wouldn’t want Calder thinking we’re weak.”

“Goes without saying.” And he gave a little bow, and walked out.

Corleth put one hand on the arm of Skarling’s Chair and leaned down towards her. “Reckon we can trust him?”

“Anyone we can trust, Calder won’t talk to. Sometimes you need a man no wind can shift.” Rikke turned towards that patch of floor that was getting somewhat stained from her chagga spit and spat on it. “Sometimes you need one who bends with the breeze.”

Too Many Principles

“This is the Lords’ Round?” asked Glaward, dumbfounded.

“It was,” said Leo. The place his father had talked of as the cradle of noble ideals. Where the great lords of the Union had engaged in dignified debate. Where Arnault stood alone to challenge Morlic the Mad and changed the course of history. It was easy to forget. “They call it the Commons’ Round now.”

The stained-glass windows, with their scenes from centuries of the Union’s proud history, had been declared symbols of repression and replaced with free, equal, ideologically sound clear glass from a new manufactory in the Three Farms. Harsh daylight wasn’t kind to the place.

The public galleries had been the playground of Adua’s highest society. Now, if they hadn’t died or fled the country, the highest society were staying well out of sight. The lowest had crowded into their place, rowdier every day. Sometimes bands would strike up bawdy songs above the Assembly, the Union’s government creaking to a halt like a mired cart till they could be clumsily evicted.